Page 24 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
“What?” I repeat, the word a whisper. He can’t know what I did up there—what Fed and I did. Oh God… If Bernadi knows, Cristiano will know, and… I don’t care what Trilby might say otherwise, but this is theItalian Mafiawe’re talking about. If they find out I’m not a virgin, God knows what they’ll do.
I force my voice out through my mouth. “Why would I find you above my dance studio? You gonna try and shut that down too?”
He pauses before his brow dips into a frown. “No, I’m not shutting anything down. I have a new office.”
My chest tightens as his words sink in. “In the space above my studio?”
He takes a step back, not needing to reply for me to know the answer.
“Of all the empty spaces in the city, why would you choose that one?” I hold on to the counter to steady myself.
His expression hardens. “Because it’s convenient.”
I turn my face away so he can’t see the relief flood through it. “It’s not convenient for me,” I mutter.
In a beat, he’s right up to me again, and I’m not sure how. It’s like he has some twisted superpower. Sometimes, he moves too fast for my vision to keep up.
“You think spending my days less than six feet above your head is convenientfor me?”
The sudden descent of darkness over his entire body takes my breath away.
“I—”
“You think having to keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven so you don’t end up making nice with some other stalking rapist isconvenientfor me?”
“He was not a r?—”
“YES. He was.” Bernadi’s sharp response stops my heart. “I was going to spare you the details but you’re starting to piss me off.” He pulls out a sheath of papers from an inside pocket of his jacket.
The angle of the light catches the curved lines of his chest, and the combination of that and his suggestion I could have beenraped, has made my throat go dry.
“Here.” He shoves the papers at me. “Some bedtime reading.”
I snatch the papers from his hand. I refuse to show him how weak and powerless his words are making me feel.
“Next time you think having a fucking paid assassin holed up in the same building as you isinconvenient, I suggest you take a look at those.”
Then moonlight falls between us as he turns away. Then he stalks out of the kitchen as silently as when he arrived.
Contessa
I’m now sitting on the floor of a guest bedroom in Cristiano’s house reading a bunch of police reports and trying not to throw up all over the pristine white carpet.
When I returned to Trilby, having left the two vodkas on the kitchen counter, unmixed, she took one look at my blood-drained face and steered me in the direction of a guest room in the east wing of the house. She told me to get some rest and we’d have breakfast together in the morning. She didn’t ask what had caused my sudden decline; I assume she thought I’d run into “Benny” again and decided I’d had enough of him for one night.
She would not have been wrong.
I’m still reeling over the fact he’s going to bepermanently based in the office above my dance studio, supposedly “keeping an eye” on me. And to make matters worse, I really don’t like having the impression he too doesn’t seem very happy about it. Has someone forced him to be some sort of bodyguard? Could it be Cristiano? Or Papa?
I’m determined to find out, as soon as I’ve recovered from the trauma of reading these frankly grotesque police reports.
My stalker’s name was Ronnie J. Smythe and he was a three-time-convicted felon. He was older than he looked—thirty-nine—and he’d spent in total twelve years in jail for crimes ranging from drug abuse, to sexual assault, to attempted abduction. It was clear from the reports he wasn’t a reformed character; he was dangerous. And I let him follow me without breathing a word about it forthree years.
I look down and realize I’m pressing a curled fist against my heart. I’ll never know how close I came to being hurt, but I do know in my gut it was imminent. If Bernadi hadn’t killed him when he had…
My gaze is drawn to the window. The full moon illuminates one half of the guestroom and the lawns outside. I’m reminded of when I stood opposite Bernadi in the kitchen only an hour ago and the feelings colliding in my chest are confused. I hate him, so I have to assume it’s possible to hate someone yet still feel grateful to them.
And maybe it’s not unusual toshiverbeneath a heated gaze.
